Crime in Paris
by RougeEtNoir17
Summary: Hastings goes to Paris for a little holiday to forget about war and family matters. There he meets his old friend and "partner in crime" Hercule Poirot. Deciding to celebrate their reunion with a dinner in one of the fanciest restaurant in Paris, a tragedy occurs. Who is the murderer? What is the reason? These are the questions that seem to have no answer in this nonsensical case.


Chapter 1

When I was a young man I thought that war was a fact that you can read about in books or hear about on the radio transmissions. I never thought of it as a real deal until I joined the army. There I learned about what war really stands for: it means loss, agony, despair, ruin. I felt all these things on my own skin, literally and figuratively speaking. War left scars on my body but mostly on my soul. It made me lose my family, my beloved companion and everything that I ever cared for.

Now, after 2 years since the war ended I decided to have a new beginning. I am thinking, like most of the people are, indeed, that my dear Dulcie would have wanted that. She always despised seeing me gloomy and at least now, when she is not among us anymore, I could make her wish come true.

Right now I am living in London, more precisely in Kensington, in the house I used to share with my wife. Fortunately, the war didn't left its marks on it, this area being quite protected. It's a fairly big house, built in a beautiful Victorian style, with two floors and a very refined garden. A tall old oak tree is guarding the gate, giving the house and its yard an intimate look.

The house itself consists in four bedrooms, one living room, one dining room, two studies, one kitchen and four bathrooms. The back of the house it's reserved for the maid and the cook. Since Dulcie died I hired a gardener because I couldn't take care of the garden with the same devotion and passion as she did.

One reason that made me decide to leave this place for a while was the feeling of desolation and emptiness the house gave me. The lonely evenings spent by the fireplace didn't suite me anymore. I wanted a little _adventure_, something that made me feel like I'm still alive, not buried in the ground along with my lady.

It was the 21st of June when I left London. I took the train from The Farringdon Railway Stations and I headed to Dover. I crossed the channel from Dover to Calais and from there I took the train to Paris. It was a long journey but I've managed to sleep on the way therefore I wasn't too tired when I arrived at my destination.

Paris is a remarkable city which is fully deserving its title: "City of lights". Consisting in world famous buildings and monuments, beautiful parks and sophisticated cuisine, this city was exactly the place I needed to be in that moment.

As soon as I got off the train I went to Hotel Napoleon, the hotel I was planning to stay in my holiday. Usually I wouldn't afford staying in such a fancy hotel, but for the past 2 years I have been saving up. I also inherited some money after my wife's death, money that I have been keeping for an opportunity like this. After a ride of 15 minutes with the cab I arrived at the hotel and checked in at the reception were the lady received me kindly. She called the hall porter to take my baggage and then directed me to my room from the 3rd floor. As I walked to the lift I noticed the big glass chandelier that was brightening the lobby, giving it a warm, pleasant look. I entered the elevator with another two persons and listened to the clattering sounds of the doors as the lift rose up. I looked at the faces of the persons around me as they flickered from dark to light as the floors gently passed by. As I reached my floor I stepped out of the elevator into an elegant and tasteful looking hallway. My room was the second on the right side. I unlocked the door and found myself in a sophisticated, empire-styled bedroom. I looked around the room, checked the bathroom and the mini-bar in the corner and found that everything was in good order. I went to the window, put the curtains aside and took in the magnificent view.

Being quite hungry, I decided to go to the restaurant to have dinner. I changed my clothes and went downstairs. The restaurant was stuffed with people elegantly dressed. Maybe my clothes were not so elegant, maybe they were a little old and worn-out but I think I wasn't much out of place. I trimmed my jacket a little and then occupied a seat at one of the tables. It was a little unusual for me as an Englishman to her hear the vague murmur of voices that were talking in French. I have to admit that my French is a little rusty due to the lack of practice but I still manage to understand a little. The waiter came and took my order. For the _entr__é__e _I ordered _bisque_, a kind of creamy soup. The main course consisted in _duck breast a l'Orange_ and for dessert I decided to try the famous _crème brulee_. While I was savoring this delicious, fine meal I tasted the wine, a brilliant deep crimson-colored one with a sweet but fruity aroma. It was probably one of the best wines I ever tasted.

After the dinner I went back to my room, bathed, changed my clothes and went to sleep early, knowing that the next day is a going to be a full one.

I woke up early, lightsome by the sun. The weather was pleasant, the sky was cloudless, something rather unusual for the soggy weather that France usually encounters. I went to the bathroom, washed my face and combed my hair until I was looking decent. After that I dressed up in a button-up shirt and a grey-colored tweed jacket.

The lobby of the hotel was quite packed that morning due to the arrival of some important politicians. While I was grazing past the crowd of people that were occupying the way I bumped into a little man near me so, naturally, I proceed to apologize as he turned. The first thing I noticed were the green, cat-like eyes and the grand moustache that looked too big for his face, but in the same time it fitted him perfectly. A big smile appeared on my face as I recognized my old friend, Hercule Poirot. He seemed surprised to see me, but in the same time happy.

"Hastings!" Poirot said as he squeezed me tightly and kissed my cheeks.

"Good Lord! Monsieur Poirot!" I replied exhilarated.

"It is, indeed, _mon cher ami_ Hastings!"

"I have to admit that I didn't expecting meeting you here, old chap! I suppose you are not here in a vacation" I said with a little smile on my lips. I know well-enough Poirot's inability of relaxing and enjoying such thing as a holiday. His brilliant mind can never have a rest. "There must be a…criminal matter, is it?"

"Well, Hastings, you are not quite far from the truth." He replied sighting. "A theft occurred a few days ago at the central bank. The police had a few suspects already but they needed Poirot's little grey cells to identify the thief." he added with a superior tone in his voice.

"I would like to hear more about it but it would be a pleasure if you would join me for breakfast now." I said while putting my hand on his shoulder, directing him to the wall. "It's getting crowded and I don't want to be stepped on in this hustle"

"I would be delighted, thank you" he said with a broad smile on his face.

We entered the room and chose a two-person table and sat. Poirot, as usually, trimmed the chair before sitting on it. He didn't seem to change at all since last time I saw him, at Styles. The same aspect, only this time without the limp (probably that was just a temporary one, caused by physical trauma encountered in the wartime), the same stiff moustache, the same pink-tipped nose. He remained the same proud, self-confident, but still amiable person I used to know. His appearance was impeccable and neat with his black tailored suit and dark green colored waistcoat. He still wore his unmistakable leather patent shoes that seemed even from far uncomfortable, fact that Poirot would certainly deny.

"So tell me." I asked "Did you manage to catch that bastard thief?"

"Oh, _mon ami_, don't underestimate Poirot." he said impetuously "Of course we caught him. Honestly, it was quite simple. He exposed himself."

"And did he give any reason for his actions?" I asked with interest.

"_Eh bien,_ he claimed that he robbed the bank because he needed money to buy an expensive treatment for his poor and sick _mamam_." he said matter-of-factly.

"Seriously?" I said with a look of disapproval on my face. "One doesn't need to rob a bank for such an ordinary reason. He could've asked for charitable donations. There are so many ladies out there willing to give their money to the poor."

"Of course, Hastings, we did not believe his words also. There is something there, a very curious matter. But do not worry, I will find the truth behind all this." He said in a confidential voice. "But tell me, mon ami, how do you do?"

"Very well, thank you. I just arrived here yesterday and until now, everything is good." I said. "And you, Poirot?"

"I'm good, I have to admit that the weather at this time of the year it's parfaitement." he said. "Not like the nasty weather I always encounter in London." he added with a grimace.

"I say, it's very nice outside, indeed." I agreed. "Who would want to stay inside on such an lovely day? I feel sorry for those who are bounded to work in an office and they…"

I couldn't finish my sentence because in that moment the garcon came and interrupted me rudely:

"Monsieur Poirot, vous avez reçu un message."

"Merci." he said with a little nod. He took out the pince-nez from his pocket and started to read carefully.

"Hastings, what do you say, would you like to dinner with me?" he said hastily. "I will tell you more about the case and maybe you can be a help to Poirot."

"Well, I don't have a anything established for the evening, so I don't see any reason why I shouldn't join you, thank you!"

"Bon, then we will meet later at 7 in the lobby, but now I have to go to a meet somebody, they found something interesting at the bank." he said as he got up from the chair. "Have a good day, Hastings, au revoir!"

"Good day, Poirot!" I replied watching him leaving.


End file.
